


Perfectly Reasonable Reactions

by Flammenkobold



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Inappropriate Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/pseuds/Flammenkobold
Summary: After a minute of staring at the dead guy in Jonathan's office, the first thing Martin says is: “We need to hide the body.""Have you lost your mind?" Tim asks.In which Martin and Tim become accessories to murder, have minor freak-outs, eat kebab and have ill advised sex while not in the best frame of mind.





	Perfectly Reasonable Reactions

After a minute of staring at the dead guy in Jonathan's office, the first thing Martin says is: “We need to hide the body."

Tim refocuses his gaze from the bloody pulp that used to be a person, to Martin. 

"Have you lost your mind?" he asks, feeling like he knows the answer. At least Martin seems to be in good company, because everyone in this godforsaken place seems to be short of a few marbles.

"Look, what else are we going to do? Call the police?"

"Yes!" 

"They didn't help with Gertrude's murder, they won't be of help here." To his credit, Martin sounds less hysterical than Tim feels at the moment.

"So we're just going to cover our crazy boss' murder spree? Perfect logic."

"We don't know – We don't know if it was John!" Martin says and Tim firmly puts him in the category of ' _ Completely _ lost his mind'.

"There is a dead person in his office," Tim scans the crime scene quickly, just to make sure his mind didn't play tricks on him, again, "And an empty tape recorder sitting on the table. Who do you think did it? Elias? The monster that came screaming down the corridor? Rosie?"

"I don't know! I don't know! Okay, Tim?" Martin nearly yells. "I just know it won't help to get the police involved and that we need to find out what happened!

"Jonathan with a pipe in the office is what happened, Martin!"

Martin runs a shaking hand through his hair, "Weren't you the one scared of ending up in court?"

"Yeah, because being accessory to murder is so much better than being put on trial for actual murder!"

"Tim!"

He hates to admit it, but Martin does have a small point there. They are still suspects, and Tim has seen enough of the shoddy work the police called Gertrude's investigation, to not suspect that they might go with the easy option. The easy option being to arrest the readily available suspects. As much as he wants to get away from the Institute, prison doesn't sound like a much more pleasant destination. It doesn't mean he has to go along with this easily.

"What's your plan then? Carry the body out of the Archives in the hopes no one sees us? Throw it into the Thames?"

"The tunnels," Martin says calmly and he has this determined look in his eyes, that tells Tim there’s not a snowball's chance in hell that he can talk Martin out of this. And he's going to go along with it. Of course he is. He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing down his nausea and the urge to scream.

"Fine," he grits out. "Fine."

"You're helping me?" Martin sounds surprised and mildly hopeful and Tim wonders how he hasn't figured it out yet. It's not like Tim has any other options or allies, really. The thought of calling the police makes his throat constrict, in the same way the thought of saying he's quitting does. Perhaps they should tell Sasha, but there is a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach at that thought, too. The memory of that  _ thing _ , that looked marginally like her, going down into the tunnels, flashes before his eyes.

"The body isn't the only thing we need to get rid of," he says, a last attempt at – something, he supposes, and gestures at the pool of blood on the floor and the spray on the wall.

"There is bleach in the janitor's closet," Martin says, "There should be disposable gloves as well." Of course there are. Tim doesn't even want to know how Martin knows all of that.

So they get rid of the body and the evidence that their boss murdered someone horribly. All the way through it Martin is eerily calm and methodical. It's probably the only thing that keeps Tim from freaking out, so he doesn't say anything about it.

Only when they stand in the abandoned Institute kitchen, washing away the last of the blood from their hands, has Tim time to assess Martin properly. His jaw is set in an unusually hard line, his eyes narrowed, focused on the task at hand, cleaning the rest of the evidence away. He's running on autopilot, Tim realizes. Like he's used to cleaning up other people's messes.

Except right now he's also washed his hands for the fourth time, rubbing at a spot on the back of his hand that is definitely clean. So Tim reaches over and closes the tap.

"I think your hands are clean enough."

Martin looks down at them again and gives him a curt nod, before briskly drying them on one of the kitchen towels.

"I need to check if we missed something," he announces and that's it, Tim thinks. It's the third time Martin has said the exact same thing.

"What you need is to go home. We've cleaned every inch of that place, twice."

"I just want to be sure we didn't miss anything," Martin argues back and the look in his eyes is almost dead, like someone switched off all emotions. It makes Tim sick. Sasha's been distant these past few months and he himself hasn't been exactly approachable either, and John, well - that mess he just cleaned up. He doesn't need Martin to close himself off too.

The past few hours were certainly made easier by Martin not freaking out and calmly telling Tim what to do, but if Tim has to choose between automaton Martin and Martin 'let me show you my tongue to ensure that I've not been infected by worms for the tenth time this week' Blackwood, Tim knows which one he actually prefers. And it's certainly not the Martin standing right in front of him now.

"Martin, stop."

"Just let me through, Tim," Martin says and it's clear that Tim needs to find some way to snap him out of it.

He's tired, cranky, this short of a panic attack and really not in any state to come up with a rational method of doing that. So it might be forgiven that he goes for the easiest method that comes to his mind for distracting people, one he knows can be effective, if risky.

"Martin," he warns, blocking the door from the kitchen. When Martin still tries to get past him, one hand on Tim's arm to shove him out of the way, Tim reaches up to grasps Martin's neck to bring him down, closer to his own height. Then he just plants one on him.

It's not even a proper kiss, but suddenly his body is hyper aware that it has been some time since, well  _ since _ , and that he is very much alive and has not been eaten by worms or some endless creeping hotel hallway from the Shining.

Martin pulls back slightly, but doesn't exactly push Tim away. "What?" he asks bewildered, eyes wide and very much not dead inside any more. "Tim – what?"

"Shut up," he says before reeling Martin back in, kissing him properly this time. There is a part of his brain that tells him that this is a bad idea, that something like this got him in major trouble before, but for the most part he feels like he deserves a bit of human contact, a bit of warmth and softness – a bit of fun.

Perhaps Martin thinks the same or the 'I survived!" feeling caught up with him too. Either way, the hand still on Tim's arm tightens and steers him back against the door frame, while Martin kisses him back. It's a bit sloppy and awkward, but Tim isn't about to complain and he'd probably be good to go right here and now. Except there is also this uncomfortable feeling at the back of his neck, like they're being watched. It's nothing new in the Institute, he mostly got used to it, but it's slightly ruining the mood.

So he is the one who pushes Martin away in the end. Martin blinks at him dazedly, lips red and spit slick, mouth slightly open, before he swallows and his eyes refocus on Tim. "Sorry- I- I think I got carried away, sorry," he says.

Tim bangs his head back against the door frame. "Don't be, just- Not here. Okay, not here," he repeats and watches as Martin processes this.

"Right, yes," Martin licks his lips nervously. "My place?"

“Sounds good,” Tim says. He prefers not to bring people back to his place anyway. Partly because of the flatmate and partly because it allows him to leave any time he wants.

In the hallway Martin lingers for a moment, eyes drifting back towards the direction of the Archives and the tunnels. So Tim just grabs his hand and pulls him along. “Come on,” he says and Martin follows, gripping his hand tightly back.

They stop holding hands in the underground station, both slowly growing aware that this isn't exactly a colleagues and perhaps friends-with-benefits thing to do.

The tube is pretty empty that late at night and there is only one elderly couple in the same carriage. Still they get seats directly next to each other. They keep quiet for most of the ride, except when Tim decides to give Martin the same warning he gives every person he's been sleeping with the past few years.

“Look, just so you know, this doesn't mean anything. You get that?” he asks Martin, because the last thing he needs is having Martin get his hopes up in any way.

Martin nods and doesn't look at Tim, his knee bouncing up and down.

“It's just sex, nothing more. It's not going to lead to anything or something,” Tim says to him quietly, because he likes to make sure Martin really does get that.

"I got that," Martin answers a little bit too loudly. "And just because I'm not getting around as much as you do, doesn't mean I can't do meaningless sex.”

"Martin," Tim hisses back. The elderly couple looks over, slightly scandalized. Tim throws them a winning smile. Tourists.

They do make it to the end of the Northern line without any other incident, eventually. Tim follows Martin back to the block of flats he's living in and Martin starts fishing for his keys. It's just then, of course, that his own stomach starts to growl in unison with Martin's.

"Uhm, I could get us something to eat?" Martin suggests sheepishly. "There is a really great kebab shop just around the corner."

Tim shrugs, "fine by me. Lead the way."

Martin shifts from one foot to the other and looks to the side. "If you want, you can already go upstairs. It'll just be a second," he says, but has already pushed his keys into Tim's hand. Perhaps he's freaking out after all. Tim's not complaining, because the train ride and the cool night air have cleared his head a bit.

This is a bad idea, he knows that from experience. Sleeping with your co-workers never ends well, sleeping with them while being in a highly emotional state only makes it worse. At least it's not his boss, this time.

He takes the keys and let's himself through the front door of the building, studying the name plates for the doorbells to get a sense of where Martin's flat is. It's easy to find, as it is the only one on the floor. The hallway is empty when Tim gets there and there are two more doors. For a moment he's just stood there, counting the doors again and checking the name on the door to Martin's flat twice, just to make sure that it is really the right door – that this is a door that belongs where it should be – before he opens it.

Martin's flat is modest and sparsely furnished. Not so much the sign of someone who likes minimalism, but more of someone who doesn't put much value in heavy things that need to be hauled around or material things in general.

The couch seems second hand, but comfortable and Tim lets himself fall into it. A wave of exhaustion washes over him and he thinks if Martin isn't up for it any more he might at least ask to crash right here. He watches as the clock on the wall ticks away for about a minute, before some other senses come back to him. His clothes still smell like chlorine and blood and sweat. It's disgusting.

So he decides to check out the bathroom. It's small, but has a bathtub with a shower in it. There is one towel on the towel holder and the small cabinet under the sink only holds toilet paper, a pair of scissors, a Swiss army knife and a new first aid kit.

He hopes that Martin doesn't mind him going through his wardrobe and sock drawer as he needs at least a towel, a change of shirt and underwear. Martin's bedroom isn't in any way more furnished than the living room. There is a bed, big enough to hold two people, Tim notices, a old Ikea wardrobe and a bedside table with a small lamp on it, and there is a poster of a lion pinned at the back of the door. Tim sighs at it and wonders why he even considers sleeping with Martin at all. His brain must've been scrambled as badly as the tapes in the endless corridors, if this is someone he thinks is up to his standards. He's left people's beds for less.

The closet has two drawers in it, holding underwear and socks respectively and Tim almost cuts his hand on a sharp knife in Martin's underwear drawer. He decides then and there that he doesn't even want to know. In the end he finds boxers that might fit him, a simple white shirt and a towel.

The shower is hot enough to be scalding and Tim just lets the water rush over him for several minutes until it starts growing slightly colder and the steam is almost thick enough to cut. He scrubs himself down twice with the bland-smelling, cheap brand shower gel Martin owns, before getting out.

It's only when he opens the door, that he notices that he isn't alone in the flat any more and his heart skips a beat. The knife suddenly seems like a good idea, he thinks, just before it sinks in that the other person in Martin's flat is Martin.

He's sat on the comfy couch, two white plastic bags in front of him, stuffing his face with a delicious smelling kebab. When Tim comes out of the bathroom he blinks up at him and swallows hastily.

"How did you get in?" Tim asks, because he's damn sure he closed the door behind himself.

Martin picks up a second pair of keys from the coffee table and dangles them. "Spare keys," he says, before shoving another piece of bread in his mouth.

Tim looks at him for a second. “You know what? Never mind,” he says and then gestures to the second plastic bag next to the table, “Is that for me?”

Martin chokes on a bit of bread and his cheeks turn beet read. “No! I mean sort of? I- sorry, this is. Sorry.”

Tim just raises an eyebrow at him and Martin's blush creeps all the way up to his ears. “It's just. I didn't have any – any supplies, okay?”

“Ah,” Tim says.

“Yes, ah.” Martin hastily pulls out a tin-foil wrapped package from the bag right in front of him and holds it in Tim's general direction. “This one’s for you. I hope chicken's okay?”

“Perfect,” Tim says, still slightly amused. He takes the still warm package from Martin's hand, unwraps the paper and bites down. A mix of flavours fill his mouth and it's honestly good enough to warrant a moan of appreciation.

He swallows and is about to tell Martin that he was right about the shop, when he finds Martin staring at him. His ears are still red and his mouth is slightly open and it makes Tim's blood flow downwards. He's about to forgo the kebab entirely, when Martin snaps his mouth shut and averts his gaze.

“Are those my clothes?” he asks and Tim can see the blush deepen. It's pretty cute.

“Yeah,” Tim says and takes another bite from his kebab, enjoying the way Martin is squirming slightly. He's probably getting lucky tonight after all. “Hope you don't mind. Just didn't want to put on my old clothes after the shower.”

“No, it's fine. It's – good.” Martin gets up, brushing some imaginary crumbs from his clothes. “I should probably go shower as well,” he declares, squeezing past Tim.

“Good idea,” Tim calls after him and lets himself fall back on the comfy couch. He keeps the kebab in one hand and reaches out with the other to get hold of the second plastic bag.

There are three different packages of condoms in there, all different sizes, which is kind of adorable and considerate of Martin, and a package of lube. Water based, Tim notes and shrugs, it'll do. It's not like he feels up for anything fancy.

The kebab is exceptionally good, but that might just be because he was really hungry. He washes down the rest of the bread with his coke, just in time for Martin to leave the bathroom.

He has the towel tied around his hips, his skin still damp from the shower, and his hair in slight disarray, dripping small droplets of water on his shoulder. He isn't exactly Tim's type but he does look appealing in that very moment.

Martin meets his gaze and his eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. Tim watches as his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “So are we really doing this? Like really, really?” he asks, voice slightly higher than usual, but sort of breathy.

Tim crumples up the napkin in his hand and throws it on the table, standing up. “Yes, yes, we're doing this,” he makes the decision and stalks over to Martin, whose shoulders slump in relief.

“Oh good,” he says and then his mouth is on Tim's. The kiss is a lot better than the one they shared in the Institute's kitchen, less teeth and saliva, a little less frantic, but not exactly less desperate. It's also better because Martin doesn't taste like month old dusty rooms, because he brushed his teeth. Tim doesn't get any time to be self-conscious about how he hasn't, because Martin bites his lip and coaxes a small groan out of Tim which he uses to slip his tongue inside. It's a neat little trick, Tim would be surprised Martin knowing, if he had time to think.

While he is usually up for finesse in these kind of things, the direct approach seems like a good option at the moment. So he simply throws away the towel around Martin's hips and goes straight for it. Martin is already half hard in his hand and gasps helplessly into his mouth at the contact. Tim smiles at the small success and uses Martin's distraction to push him back against the nearest wall.

Martin doesn't miss a beat and pulls Tim along with him, his hands coming to rest on the small of his back and pulling them flush. This is going to end a lot faster than he'd like, if they're not slowing down.

He manages to pull his mouth away for a second from Martin's to get out, “Bed.” It's all the time Martin needs to ignore him and redirect his attention to Tim's throat, worrying a kiss into his skin.

Tim gives Martin's earlobe a nip in retaliation.

“Bed.” Tim reminds Martin, who hums in agreement against his collarbone, but doesn't make any attempts to actually move. Instead he neatly inserts his thigh between Tim's leg and the sudden friction makes Tim groan and tilt his head back enough for Martin to go straight back to his throat. His hands scrabble to find some hold on Martin's slippery skin and it's a good thing there is quite a bit of Martin in general.

Tim curses. “Seriously,” he gets out between heavy breaths, “bed.”

“Yeah,” Martin finally acquiesces, his breath ghosting over Tim's throat as he slowly lets go of Tim. “Can you- grab the, the...uh...?”

Tim nods mutely and it takes him a few seconds to collect himself enough to do it. Martin slips through in the meantime, already heading for the bedroom. Tim goes back to the couch table, pulls the lube out of the plastic bag and fumbles one of the boxes open to retrieve two condoms.

By the time he comes into the bedroom, he finds Martin standing in front of the bed, eyes unfocused.

“You okay?” he asks, taking in the pallor of Martin's face and his blown pupils.

“Yeah?” Martin says, a small sound escaping his mouth afterwards. It sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a hysterical giggle. If Martin breaks now, Tim isn't sure if he can hold it together either or if the terror he's been trying to keep at bay finally catches up.

He doesn't think he can talk either of them down if they fall off the brink they've been teetering on for days now, perhaps even months. Maybe he doesn't have to, because if the last few hours have taught him anything, words might not be needed. Martin fancies himself a poet, but at the end of the day he is far better with action than with words.

So Tim steps in closer and raises his free hand to run his knuckles over Martin's cheek, down to his neck, where he can feel Martin's fast pulse against his skin. Martin sways slightly into the gesture, his eyes slowly focusing on Tim again.

“You still okay with this?” he asks quietly and feels Martin swallow.

“Yeah,” he says a lot surer than he'd answered the first question and leans in to kiss Tim again. It's starts out a lot slower than the previous ones, almost too intimate for Tim's comfort, but gains traction fast.

Martin starts tugging at his shirt and Tim becomes aware of two things: he's still wearing clothes and he's still holding lube and condoms. Two things he needs to rectify. He pushes Martin back, down onto the bed, and Martin blinks up at him in confusion. Tim tosses the supplies after him and expediently takes of his shirt.

“Sod it,” he mutters, because who needs to sexily remove clothes anyway, and gets rid of the boxers, too.

When he looks back at Martin, Martin eyes him up and down appreciatively, like he can't believe he is getting that lucky. It's quite flattering, if Tim is honest, and it's more than enough of an enticement to crawl into the bed after Martin, who grabs his wrist to pull him down.

Afterwards he blinks up at the lion on the poster, mildly stupefied. Martin is far from the best he had, but he's good enough that Tim questions his choices of not doing this months ago. Might've gotten rid of some tension.

“Can I, you know-” he starts and already feels his thoughts slipping.

Martin grumbles and throws a heavy arm over Tim, effectively pinning him to the bed. “Just go to sleep, Tim.”

He doesn't need more encouragement than this.

**Author's Note:**

> Do not try to kiss someone out of a panic attack, is all I got. Terrible tropes are terrible, but I also love them.
> 
> Thanks at poorpoorpitiful me over at tumblr for beta reading!


End file.
